


Raze My Heart With Joy

by hitlikehammers



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (kind of), 100 Reasons Why Bucky Barnes Loves Steve Rogers, Adorable Supersoldiers in Love, Christmas Fluff, Comfort and Joy and Whatnot, Domestic Fluff, Embedded Images, Holidays, Love coupons, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mild Uniform/Authority Kink, Multimedia, Nostalgia, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-08 14:39:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5501159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitlikehammers/pseuds/hitlikehammers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there are more love coupons, a list of reasons, opposite strip poker, chocolate tartes, and Post-Its. So many Post-Its.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="small"> (( Companion/follow-up/sequel/imagined extension of the lovely <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/starclipped/pseuds/starclipped">starclipped</a>'s phenomenal 2014 holiday fic <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2817464">Fill My Lungs with Sweetness</a>, but can be read alone. Though I can't imagine why you'd <i>want</i> to read it alone, and skip the amazing fic that inspired it. ))</span>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Raze My Heart With Joy

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Fill My Lungs with Sweetness](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2817464) by [starclipped](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starclipped/pseuds/starclipped). 



> First: this was inspired as a follow-up/sequel/imagined extension of the lovely [starclipped](http://archiveofourown.org/users/starclipped/pseuds/starclipped)'s phenomenal 2014 holiday fic [Fill My Lungs with Sweetness](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2817464), which you should go read right this moment if you haven't already. Because it's brilliant and one of my favorite fics in the world.
> 
> Brief summary of that fic: post-TWS/post-recovery Bucky needs ideas on what to get Steve for Christmas. Clint and Natasha share their love coupons, which Steve and Bucky use facetiously at first, before confessions their undying affection for one another. Steve gives Bucky a piano and a list of 100 reasons why he loves Bucky for Christmas, in the end. Bucky gives Steve a dog. It's adorable and wonderful and yes. 
> 
> And basically: I wanted to see what Bucky's 100-reasons list would look like. So I asked [starclipped](http://archiveofourown.org/users/starclipped/pseuds/starclipped) if I could play in their universe, which they agreed to, to my utmost delight (To which, [starclipped](http://archiveofourown.org/users/starclipped/pseuds/starclipped): I do apologize that you may or may not have got to see this before I posted it, as I'd told you I'd send it to you first, because I never heard back from you and I fear technology/changed addresses/all of the immense TIME that has past may have thwarted us. I hope you don't hate this, and if there's anything you don't approve of, just let me know). 
> 
> But anyway, this is what emerged: semi-interconnected vignettes of utter fluff with Steve and Bucky using the rest of the coupons, making a few of their own, and Bucky giving Steve his list. Also Post-Its. Yep. Happy freaking Holidays.
> 
> Second: this is _so_ unedited/unbeta'd it's not funny. Because I'll be away for a bit, and wanted to post it while I had time to code the images, just now, and before the holiday. And also: because I've _been_ away and this was mostly written on a mobile, so it's riddled with horrible autocorrects, I am sure. Point them out, or don't, but here's your warning. 
> 
> <3

The light comes in quiet; streams in calm.

Bucky inhales deep, greets the morning with the breath before he opens his eyes, and the weight on his chest is a welcome thing. A perfect thing.

And he feels it, as Steve wakes to the shift in his body, in his pulse—Bucky feels it, the curve of Steve’s lips as he grins into Bucky’s bare skin.

“Mmmm,” Steve hums idly, his lashes tickling as he moves just so, just enough to bury his face in the crook of Bucky’s arm—his left arm. To breathe in.

Steve kisses the sheet-warmed metal without a thought, and Bucky loves him. 

Jesus _Christ_ , but Bucky _loves_ him. 

And the question doesn’t have to be asked, anymore: that second-morning question, that first-week-and-all-the-wakings-after question, where Bucky’d watched as Steve would look at him as if he was a sunrise, as if there were miracles in the world and he was the proof; where Bucky’s breath had got caught in his throat, mouth gone dry as he’d reached for Steve’s hand, for Steve’s cheek and pretended not to be floored by the lean into the touch, by fingers curling in his own—it’s the question that isn’t a question when he says it, it’s the question that lives underneath when every time he’d breathed out:

“It’ll get old, y’know,” he’d whispered that second morning, that third and fourth. “One day, the shine will wear off and it’ll just be me. You’ll get sick of it.”

And below, without words, etched in the tone of voice, in the flow of the sentences themselves where only Steve would know it as less built of laughter and more wrought from veiled fear: _Has the glimmer gone yet? Has it gotten old, are you tired of it? Just warn me, first, tell me when you get sick of it, of me, don’t leave without me knowing, break me slowly if I’ve got to shatter, please Stevie, please— ___

“Nope,” Steve mouths against the curve of Bucky’s ribs. “Nope, not even close.” Because it doesn’t have to be said out loud, but it does beg the answer, every morning, every time they open eyes to a brand new dawn because there are steps Bucky’s still unsure of; there are things that Bucky still can’t take as a given in this world, and Steve sees it. Steve knows it without hearing it spoken; Steve feels it, maybe. Feels it too, and needs.

And Steve lets the need sink in, lets _it_ be felt from the kisses he leaves over smooth skin where it stretches over muscle, over bone before tilting up at the chin and grinning soft, grinning warm in a way that makes Bucky’s pulse trip around the reason it has to keep beating, around that smile and all that it holds.

“Sorry,” Steve grins cheekily, because he isn’t, of course he isn’t, because this isn’t a thing that either of them knows how to be sorry for: this isn’t a place they’ve finally come to, a moment they’ve finally arrived inside and figured out how to hold to that they’ll ever apologize for and Bucky’s grateful, damnit; he’s _grateful_.

And he hopes that Steve can feel it beneath the fire and softness and wonder and gold in his hands against Bucky’s body, as he presses lips across to the line of Bucky’s sternum and up, up to meet his mouth, and no: Steve isn’t tired of anything. What they taste between them isn’t old at all.

In light of everything, _because_ of everything: there’s still such goddamn _shine_.

_____________________________________

Steve’s better in the mornings than Bucky is, but not by much. And it’s an indulgence, it’s a thing they both relish: the capacity to lie in bed without a damned thing to budge them save the pairs of hands between them when the mood strikes before sunrise. They haven’t often had that luxury—they still don’t, with the world they face, the lives the lead. It’s still an indulgence, still far from a guarantee. 

So they’re both inclined to bask inside it, now, whenever they can.

But the fact remains that Steve’s slightly more coherent before his coffee and his shower—the former of which has no scientific effect on his physiology, and the latter of which he prefers to share with his lover under the spray when he can, but Steve’s not a fool. Bucky needs the warmth, grasps for it upon waking in Steve’s body, in the safety of their room, and he’s happiest to ease from it gently, gradually, bit by bit from the blankets to the shower to the world—and the smile on his face when he leaves the bathroom, hair still damp and water still clinging to his bare chest: the _smile_ Steve gets for meeting his steam-hazy partner with a fresh cup of joe before the heat leaches from his skin is something that leaves Steve more than willing to sacrifice the feel of that body against him under the stream of water: he’ll offer that up, in order to meet Bucky with two sugars and a splash of half-and-half that he can taste when he leans in to kiss that smile, to drink it in full: better than the coffee. 

Always.

All that said, though: just because Steve’s more cognizant of the world than Bucky is on those rare lazy mornings that don’t require his focus, that don’t demand him—heart, mind, and shield—to prevail; just because Steve’s _more_ on the ball than Bucky, doesn’t mean he’s batting a thousand. So yeah, it takes him past turning on the coffee machine, filling the dog’s water and shaking kibble out for her breakfast (and not missing the goddamned bowl this time, he’ll count that as a win), and grabbings their respective mugs out from from cupboard before he notices—twin splotches of neon against marble countertops:

Steve blinks at the Post-Its once, twice before he really processes what they say; another four or five more times before he starts to get the idea of what they mean—the why is still elusive, but Steve’s pulses pick up to the rhythm of the drip of the coffee, nonetheless. 

“Stevie,” Bucky singsongs at his back, and Steve could’ve traced the bare padding of footsteps down the hall toward the kitchen, if he was thinking clearly, if he was doing anything but staring wide-eyed and enraptured at the lines that still give him pause, at the scrawl that maps his memories, that he’d thought he’d never see again for so fucking _long_ —

“Does my nose deceive me,” and Bucky hears the jingle of Star’s collar as Bucky crouches to scratch behind her ears; “or is my best guy brewing me the good stuff on this lovely morning?”

And yes, Steve’d pawned the less-good-stuff off on Clint—who quite possibly doesn’t even have a palate to discern flavor in the first place—so that it wouldn’t be wasteful to take up Bucky’s new favorite overpriced medium roast; but Steve’s transfixed, still, trying to make sense of the notes in front of him until Bucky’s chest is pressed against Steve’s back, soaking through Steve’s shirt where his skin’s still wet as he props his chin atop Steve’s shoulder and follows his gaze.

“Oh.”

It’s an exhale, barely, and Steve can feel the subtle tension that seizes Bucky’s frame as he breathes in, and pulls back enough so that Steve can turn, can face him, even if his fingertips never leave the edges of the paper squares.

“It’s,” Bucky licks his top lip, ‘round to the corners. “It’s umm. The list, from, y’know.” He shrugs, and folds his arms across his chest as he leans back against the counter. “From Christmas, when you,” and he gestures broadly, in a way that somehow does manage to encompass the idea of Steve’s maybe-not-so-silly enumeration of why Bucky’s so loveable Steve could _cry_ ; Bucky gestures broadly, but he’s still avoiding eye-contact: not desperate, really, so much as shy, and Steve’s not sure if that’s worse or not. Not sure if that’s less _Bucky_ enough to cause greater concern.

“I’ve been wanting to write one, y’know. For you,” Bucky tacks on, and that, though: _that_ bit reads as desperate; reads just a little bit as aching. “I mean…” 

“Buck,” Steve cuts in, chest tight at the thought of Bucky feeling anything like obligation, anything like the necessity to place words to what they both know is felt, is kept, is safe and strong between them. “You don’t have to—”

“It was too hard.”

And Steve’s mouth snaps closed, at that; he doesn’t know what to say, and the war between sense and fear and the immensity of feeling that lives in his chest must show on his face, somehow, in some twitch or blink, because Bucky’s expression is falling for a long second before he recovers, before he reaches for Steve’s face and frames it, pulls it close at the cheeks with open palms as he breathes.

“It was too hard to,” he swallows, bites his lip in that way that Steve’s always loved; “to narrow it down, to find the best, the ones that mattered most, to just fit.” Bucky shakes his head, smiles ruefully. 

“A hundred things, the top hundred reasons out of a lifetime, Stevie, out of _two_ lifetimes, it was,” he breathes out slow, sighs it full: “ _hard_.”

And the warmth that comes from that, that fills Steve up at _that_ is beyond words or knowing; the warmth that overflows is unprecedented: two lifetimes. Second chances. Enough things to love between them as there’ve been breaths to take.

“So I figured I should stop trying, and I should just tell you all of ‘em, soon as I think ‘em,” Bucky says with resolve, glances toward the yellow squares near the coffee pot. “And earlier, the, this,” Bucky gestures toward his left arm indicatively, as explanation for the words: a little loose, a little lost. “You were,” and he swallows hard, sighs long, shrugs slow. Meets Steve’s eyes, finally, with a certain kind of madness—the sort Steve’s knows dear to the chest, that comes from feeling so goddamn _deep_ : “Well.”

The silence between them that follows probably drags, probably stretches long, in reality, but Steve can’t help but let it ride, let it flow and dip and twine around them because Steve can’t help but stare at this man, this gorgeous, perfect man who he loves, who’s braved more storms than a heart should live to stand: this man who holds him close and grins like sunlight on fresh snow, blinding; who loves him _back_.

“It’s not particularly romantic,” Bucky starts to hedge; “but—”

Steve leans in and seals their mouths together, fast and fierce and for all the complex feeling, and Bucky’s tongue runs the line of his teeth like a mantra, a benediction, a labyrinth walk for the way it grounds them both, and Steve’s heart’s pumping heavy and full by the time they pull back.

“I love you,” Steve gasps in between them, a single finger tracing the line of Bucky’s jaw. “I love you so goddamn much.”

And Bucky grins, and it’s radiant; it matches the curve of the mug when he reaches around to pour their coffee, when he takes his first sip; when he tilts his head to kiss Steve’s mouth once more: two sugars, and a splash of half-and-half—Steve can _taste_ it.

His own mouth curves to match, in kind.

_____________________________________

Bucky’s thinking takeout, honestly—mostly because they’re staying in the Tower for the night and it goes straight to Stark’s tab—before Steve presents the coupon to him.

 

“Doesn’t this kind of defeat the purpose?” Bucky eyes the added caveat, made in Steve’s hand.

“If the purpose isn’t to be as close as possible to you when you bend down to reach into the oven, then yeah. I guess.” Steve shrugs, and crowds Bucky’s space where he stands at the island in their kitchen, hips swaying deliberately as he overtakes the distance between them step by step, breath by breath until Bucky breathes in and his spine lines up against Steve’s sternum; until Steve breathes out and it sends shivers through Bucky’s body where it warms the stretch of his neck.

“But what the hell kind of purpose is that?” Steve purrs, and Bucky can’t help himself. He turns just as Steve’s arms come to circle him, and he presses their mouths together, lets his tongue explore Steve’s lips, Steve’s teeth; lets it curl around the moan that roars up that throat and tastes of honeysuckle want.

“What do you want, then?” Bucky nips Steve’s lower lip when he pulls back.

“Whatever,” Steve answers lazily, eyes hooded. “What’ve we got?” 

And those lips are swollen and red and curled up and good enough to fucking eat and Bucky doesn’t give a shit what they’ve got in the fridge, he is pretty goddamn sure he can feast a four-course meal on that mouth, and by default, it’ll be made together. Kind of. 

Good enough.

Steve seems to read the intention in his gaze, though, because his grin just widens and he drops a quick kiss to Bucky’s lips with the hazy exhale of _later_ before pulling away and opening the freezer.

“Salmon?” 

“Eh,” Bucky’s face screws up; the whole fucking floor’ll smell like fish if they make that tonight. And Steve’d promised: _later_.

That’ll probably dampen the mood.

“Roast?” Steve riffles through the containers Bucky’s meticulously labeled because _No, Tony, we’re not going to waste food just because we can have ‘fresh’ shit delivered on a whim._

“Hmm,” Bucky slides next to Steve, who doesn’t move to accommodate his presence, very deliberately lets their shoulders touch, lets their hips graze as Bucky searches through the vegetable crisper.

“Carrots,” he lifts up the bag indicatively.

“Potatoes are the pantry,” Steve adds. “And onions. I think they’re still good?”

“They’re still good,” Bucky bites his lip against a chuckle; Steve’s still getting his sea legs in the kitchen; still has to take his marching orders from Bucky when it comes to the details.

Neither of them mind, though; not one bit.

“J,” Bucky asks the air around them; doesn’t look up when he does, because JARVIS doesn’t actually care, and isn’t actually in the ceiling—which was a habit long in breaking, but Bucky’d damn well made it work. “What’s Bruce’s herb garden look like?”

“Thriving, Sergeant,” JARVIS answers. “Dr. Banner says that he can bring you rosemary and thyme on his way up to meet with Miss Potts within the hour, if you’d like?”

“Thank him for us, would you?” Bucky moves to the pantry, starts to gather the necessities. “For sharing his perpetually green thumb.”

Steve snorts, and Bucky glances up, can’t hide the shit-eating grin he knows is on his own face.

“That’s horrible,” Steve declares, though it’s choked with laughter. “You’re horrible.”

“Horribly _punny_ ,” Bucky deadpans, and he doesn’t have to see Steve, doesn’t have to hear him approach to know when his arms are going to settle around Bucky’s middle, to know when he’s going to draw Bucky in close. 

“Horrible,” Steve breathes against the base of Bucky’s neck, mouths at the skin, and Bucky sinks into the feeling, into the soft give of Steve’s body, Steve’s grin, Steve nuzzling at the fringe of his hair. 

“Just _horrible_.”

 

_____________________________________

Dinner is fantastic. The herbs totally make it, too. Steve figures Bruce probably deserves, like, a gift basket or something. More herbs. Yeah, herbs. More plants. That are herbs.

That might be the strand of absolutely spec-fucking-tacular orgasms he’s just had talking, though, so.

But yeah. Herbs. That’ll be good.

“Feels good,” Steve sighs, only just starting to settle back into his body firmly enough to register the rhythmic pressure of Bucky’s lilting touch, metal fingertips warmed gorgeously against his sweat-slick skin as his chest still heaves a little, as he still works to calm his breath.

“Good,” Bucky breathes back, and leans down to press lips, more than kiss the dip between Steve’s collarbones. Steve shudders, and his heart skips for the intimacy of it, and Bucky maybe keeps his lips there, and breathes into and out of that concave slip of skin; Bucky’s maybe doing more than idle drawing when his fingers stray to the splay of Steve’s pecs.

Steve closes his eyes, holds his breath, even: his pulse is still caught in the pleasure, the bliss, but if he concentrates, he can pick out the letters. The words.

 _Your heartbeat,_ etched out slow, loopy cursive like they were taught in school: _then_.

Steve’s breath hitches, beyond his own control.

 _Your heartbeat,_ Steve follows more quickly, the second time; _now_.

And Bucky’s pressed close to him, pressing kisses to the pulse where it pounds at the notch of Steve’s clavicle; where he writes oaths and promises and secrets, numbers of a list that never needed to be made but _god_ does it make Steve’s fucking _soul_ ache with the best possible strain and satisfaction, wonder and heat to know it, to hear it to feel it like _this_ :

 _Your heartbeat,_ Bucky traces light above the pumping, the muscle itself once more. _Always,_ and he pulls away, meets Steve’s eyes in the dark before he kisses where his hands had wrote, eyeing Steve through his lashes and never once breaking eye contact as his fingertip returns to its tellings:

 _Always_ , he writes again, _because it means that this is real._

Steve’s got his own hands on Bucky’s biceps, both sides; is hauling him up and letting their chests lean hard against each other as he kisses Bucky for all that he’s worth. Let’s them both feel the ring of their heartbeats like bells in the night against a ribcage within, and a ribcage without.

Steve relishes the heat, the weight of Bucky’s body up against his own, the push of Bucky’s heart against his skin; wants those words branded on his skin to the day he dies.

_____________________________________

 

 

“No.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “ _No_?”

“Buck,” Steve sighs, all drama as he runs his hands over his face, the purple of the coupon held between two fingers clashing with the deepening red of Steve’s cheeks. “You know I'm crap at this sorta thing.”

“You’re not,” Bucky protests, but Steve moves his hands just enough to pin him with a sharp stare.

“Okay,” Bucky concedes, biting his lip as he tries to save his angle; Steve’s never been _great_ at talking dirty, but still. “You’ve gotten better?”

The incredulity in Steve’s gaze deepens to the point where Bucky can damn near taste it in the air between them.

“Come _on_ ,” Bucky pushes, because he ain’t _lying_. “I almost got off on you runnin’ your yap last night!”

“That’s different!” Steve counters, exasperated. “Talkin’ about it, in the moment. In the _bedroom_.”

“You can bring a notepad to bed, if y’want,” Bucky offers, and it’s not even teasing; he’s serious. He don’t care how it happens, he’s just kinda keen to get his goddamn letter.

“It’s _different_ ,” Steve frowns, hands wringing the tiny coupon until it starts to warp under the heat of his palms. “It’s different, when you’re sayin’ it. From, y’know,” Steve shrugs helplessly. “Writing it.”

“ _How_ is it different?”

“Because when I say it—”

 

“Say _what_ , exactly?” Bucky bats his eyes, innocent as he can, even if he can’t keep his mouth from curling into a smirk as he eggs Steve on; gets the sigh he’s looking for out of Steve after no less than a minute of careful lash-wagging. Works like a fucking charm. Not that Steve tries very hard to resist, but Bucky’s not too proud. He’ll take the win.

“Oh, Buck,” Steve’s face is nothing short of deadpan as he puts on a heavy, overwrought kind of tone, close enough to what he does sound like in bed to make Bucky warm under the collar, but over-the-top enough that said heat gets cut through with laughter before it travels too low. “I’m gonna fill you up, I’m gonna suck that perfect cock, I’m gonna ride you ‘til you can’t see straight, fucking _hell_.”

“Ah, yes,” Bucky rubs his chin consideringly, nods sagely and fights a grin. “That. So just write that down.”

Steve sighs, dramatically. 

Shocker.

“It’s not the _same_ ,” he damn near whines, and Bucky suspects that any other person’d find it annoying, or else, surprising: Captain America, the petulant child. Not Bucky, though; never Bucky. Because Steve Rogers was always a little bit of a petulant asshole, and seeing it now, seeing _him_ now: it’s a gift, is what it is. It is and always will be a goddamned _gift_.

“You’re the one who’s good with words,” Steve cocks his head in Bucky’s direction, as if that’ll distract from the flush in his cheeks. “I got the artistic skills, you got the,” he gestures ambiguously: “the wordy skills.”

“ _Wordy skills_ , wow, yeah,” Bucky whistles low. “Proved your point.”

“Fuck you,” Steve snorts. “You can’t even draw stick figures.”

“Can too!”

And Bucky grabs for the pen on the counter, steals the coupon from Steve’s hand and makes his goddamned case.

“Ha.” He slides the finished product across toward Steve, who peers down at it as Bucky crosses his arms over his chest and assumes the smuggest expression he can muster because no, it’s not good. But it _is_ a stick figure, and he fucking _drew_ it.

 

 

Steve eyes him critically. “It has a tail.”

Bucky stands his ground.

“Tails are cool.”

Steve holds out for another few seconds before he concedes, and Bucky flips the coupon back over—not because he’s ashamed of his masterpiece, of course, not that at all—and taps it meaningfully, until Steve’s gaze trails back toward the request on the front.

And again: the dramatic fucking _sigh_.

“I don’t want to put it on paper,” Steve says, but Bucky knows him, better than he knows any other thing, than he knows himself: Bucky knows him.

He hears the shift in that voice, and he might not know yet where it comes from, but he understands what it means.

“I don’t want to say it where, y’know,” and Steve’s eyes don’t leave the violet-colored strip of paper, and Bucky watches as his throat works around the weight of what he’s trying to say. “Where other people could see it.”

And all the things that are wrapped up in those words, all the unstated confessions, all the fears between the lines: Bucky’s breath catches, because he gets it. He knows—in different ways, sure, but he knows just as keenly what it means to have your life on display, to have people think they know you, to have people think they own you, until you’re not even sure who you are; aren’t even sure you can own to yourself.

“Stevie—”

“That’s, it’s,” Steve looks up, meets Bucky’s eyes and gestures futilely at the words on the paper between them, on what it stands for in practice, rather than theory. “That’s only for you. I only do that for _you_. It’s just for us.”

“Okay,” Bucky says softly, stepping forward and taking one hand to cup Steve’s cheek, and the other to swipe the coupon into the trash. “Okay.”

And when he leans in, and their lips meet, Bucky lets himself sink a little further into the feeling of it than he’d normally allow, so early in the day, so much of a risk of not quite surfacing for the hours that follow: Bucky lets himself sink in and relish the way that this, too, is only for them.

_____________________________________

He’s back from the range with Clint, some hours later: sore in the second-best of ways and blurry eyed and ready to collapse into bed, when he sees it stuck to the fridge:

 

Bucky damn well chokes on his laughter, damn near trips over his feet as he strips in record time, shedding clothes mid-step as he hurries toward their room, because god, _god_.

But he _loves_ this _man_.

_____________________________________

Steve won’t lie: the note wasn’t such a trial that it outweighed the absolutely glorious sex they’d had. Bucky’s whining for coffee and hell: it was good enough that Steve didn’t even argue before getting up to bring Bucky’s a cup.

Which _says_ something.

But, thing is: before he can brew the coffee, it turns out he has to uncover the machine. Because the machine, it seems, has been covered. In post-its.

In _love_.

 

 

 

Steve almost doesn’t bother brewing them anything before he runs back to their bedroom to kiss Bucky senseless, but then he thinks on the taste of Bucky’s mouth after he’s had his coffee, the taste of caffeine and the man he loves and pure, unadulterated joy like nothing else in the universe, and for that? Steve can wait a little bit.

He still taps his foot impatiently as he waits for the cups to brew, but really: no one can blame him for that.

No one in their right fuckin’ _mind_ could blame him, if they had what he’s got waiting for him just a few rooms away.

_____________________________________

Spring’s knocking. 

Bucky can tell as he cracks the window and catches the scent of the trees waking up, crocuses breaking ground. Life coming back. 

God, but he knows that feeling. 

He knows that feeling, just like he knows the feeling of arms as they snake around him now, pull him in so close: impossible and perfect and all the things that the world forgets when it's cruel; lives inside when it's made of joy. 

Steve nuzzles into the crook of Bucky’s neck as he slides a hand up Bucky's chest, lifts something to meet Bucky’s gaze: 

 

“Is the coupon really necessary?” Bucky asks, reaching up to take the coupon; to let to flutter to the ground as he takes Steve’s hand in his own. 

“Not really,” Steve shrugs, like it doesn't matter. 

And when Bucky turns, and sucks soft at first on Steve’s lower lip as he cups his face, strokes his cheek, draws him in to go from gentle nipping to outright devouring in the space of his rapidly rising heartbeat, and they don't need a fucking coupon. 

But Bucky’ll take any reason in the world to steal an extra taste of Steve. Any day of the fuckin’ week. 

_____________________________________

Steve wakes up earlier than he needs to, really, before his run—but they need groceries, just basics. Eggs. Folgers. Probably a loaf of bread.

And Steve actually kind of likes going to grab things in the middle of the week between thei regular deliveries; it’s normal. Domestic.

It grounds him in a way he doesn’t know how to put into words.

So he wakes up earlier than he needs to, really, which means _much_ earlier than Bucky usually deigns to drag himself out of bed, because he’s learned to at least _sometimes_ trust Steve’s welfare to Sam for the runs, at least, and that warms Steve’s chest like nothing else: not just because it means Bucky’s warming to Sam, but because it means that Bucky’s settling into this. Into _them_.

But it’s earlier than either of them usually greet the day, is the point, and so the fact that there are eggs on the counter, and a fresh pot of coffee awaiting Steve at the machine, is somewhat baffling. Particularly when Steve’s still in his boxers and sleep shirt, and Bucky was definitely just this side of snoring when Steve himself had rolled out of bed only moments before.

There’s even an empty mug next to the coffee pot. Steve’s favorite mug, in fact, the one that changes colors when something warm fills it up. Bucky always gets the biggest grin when Steve watches the transformation with wide eyes. Steve’s pretty sure he makes the wide eyes mostly for the sake of Bucky’s grin.

They’re symbiotic like that.

But Steve ain’t the type to look a gift horse in the mouth when one stop by to say hello, so he pours himself a cup, black, and only catches the strips of paper out of the corner of his eye when he places the pot back in its place to warm.

 

And sticky notes, piled at the bottom, like Bucky couldn’t help himself, like Bucky could only burst with _more_ :

 

 

Steve smiles to himself from the first sip to the dregs, and keeps smiling as he goes to the end table in the living room; retrieves the by now well-loved stack of papers and flips through the purple slips. 

He grins wider, still, when he finds the one he knows is there, in handwriting much more familiar, far more dear than most of the rest—yes. 

Perfect. 

 

_____________________________________

 

It’s waiting for him on Steve’s pillow when Bucky finally wakes for good, and reading his own scrawl on the coupon, on Clint’s whim, of all things: and he cackles. 

He fucking _cackles_.

He’s so far gone on this bastard he could drown in it. God _damn_.  
_____________________________________

The bent-over bare ass that meets him when he walks through the door nearly has him swallowing his tongue. Physically impossible, but there you have it. 

Hot _damn_. 

“Afternoon, honey,” Bucky stands, only one hand covered with an oven mitt as he lifts a tin from the rack. Steve knows his jaw’s hinged open as the heat from the open oven flushes Bucky’s naked chest, the warmth of the tarte he holds radiating out to dog the metal of his arm at the joint of his shoulder. 

Bucky’s grin is wide as sin, shit-eating in a way that takes Steve back decades, and yet roots him here. Right here. 

“How was work?”

Steve can smell the gorgeous bakery, the molten chocolate his mother was famous for: he salivates, hell yeah he does: but not for the food. 

Bucky barely has a chance to set the pan down safely before Steve kisses him, hard and fast and close enough for him to feel the swift hardening, lifting of Bucky erection against his own thighs and oh. 

Oh, but that's the best treat Steve could hope to get. 

And he's _real_ partial to his ma’s chocolate tarte. 

_____________________________________

 

And so maybe Steve sneaks down after they’ve gone five rounds in bed and Bucky’s breathing deep and Steve is satisfied in every way he can imagine, save one.

Maybe _that’s_ when Steve sneaks down for some of that delicious fucking tarte.

And it’s waiting for him, though fuck knows when Bucky found the time to slice it between sucksing Steve’s cock and thrusting inside of him to climax more than once: but it’s there, waiting for him, and Steve’s already smiling when he goes to the drawer for a fork to help himself, and finds the old-fashioned cocoa tin sitting just on the counter above the cutlery:

 

 

Steve’s already smiling, but that makes it almost hurt, for the way it stretches his face, and that.

 _That’s_ the best thing Steve could imagine. Honest to God, but it is.

_____________________________________

There are literally three full bathrooms in their flat. Not that Bucky can justify that shit, beyond just saying _Tony_ —given the man’s unasked-for and unavoidable involvement in their move out—and expecting that to cover it, but whatever: three full baths. One of them even has a tub that could pass for a swimming pool. So technically: they really don’t have to share a shower.

And in all honesty, it’s not like they need a fucking excuse to catch each other naked. Not these days. Not ever, really—they’ve never been shy, but. Less so, even. Now.

That said, each morning one of them wakes within a decent window of the other, it never fails. One of ‘em is spitting toothpaste into the sink and sliding the door back open just as the other’s stepping out and dripping wet as he grabs for a towel. They generally don’t even bother turning off the spray in between. Ain’t worth it to let the stream heat back up again.

It’s just their way.

So Bucky’s shaking the excess water from his hair as Steve brushes past him, steady palm on Bucky’s hip as he maneuvers around, as Bucky turns to press a kiss to Steve’s jaw before Steve takes the shower and Bucky moves to towel dry, except his towel isn’t out where he left it.

There’s something in it’s place, though, staring up at him instead:

 

 

Bucky frowns, glancing at Steve silhouette through the frosted glass. “I already took mine?”

The door glides open just a hair to show Steve’s raised eyebrow as he says, plain and flat but the heat in his eyes undeniable. 

“I absolutely don’t care.”

And Bucky, well: when the Star-Spangled Man’s got a plan? It’s pointless to argue.

Not that that usually _stops_ Bucky, but it’s not as if he’s really invested in changing Steve’s mind, just now.

So Bucky doesn’t waste a goddamn second stepping back into under the shower, wrapping tight around Steve’s body from behind and lapping drops of water upward from the base of his neck, nipping at the line of his jaw, mouthing across to his lips before turning him around and kissing him full-on, chest to chest pressed flush to the hips, moaning out of sync with the sound of the spray against the tiling, dicks starting to take note where they move, where they meet.

“You’re a menace,” Bucky breathes against Steve’s lips, traces them with the tip of his tongue as they curve.

“You love it.”

“Mmm,” Bucky sucks that bottom lip between both his own, works it long between the line of his teeth: “That’s true.”

Steve smiles then, bright and full at the words like it’s a surprise to be told he’s the moon and the sun and the reason Bucky gives to breathing; like it’s new somehow, every time.

And his palms are slick, smooth against Steve’s dampened chest as he runs them open, worshipful up, then down; as he lets his mouth trail; as he lowers himself to his knees and takes Steve first in hand, running the length of him until he shivers.

“You got time?”

Steve stares down at him, wide-eyed and open lips. “No.”

Bucky’s careful to hide his disappointment—has got good at in, in times like this, because Steve’s got a meeting or a debrief or a whatnot more often than he doesn’t; Bucky lets his grip slide from Steve’s dick and drags the tip of his nose up the vee of his groin, kissing along the warm flesh and making his way to follow the line of hair up Steve’s stomach, further still, until a hand settles at the base of his skull.

“That doesn’t mean you should stop.”

Bucky own breath catches, because oh—the _things_ that tone of voice, those heady words _do_ to him.

Bucky glances up, lets himself drown for a moment, then two, inside the gleam of Steve’s eyes, the heave of his chest, all quick and shallow and wanting; Bucky lets himself swim in that, revel in its joy before sucking Steve, practiced and smooth, between ready lips.

“Mmmm, fuck,” Steve hums, groans, the tremble already starting as he holds his hips from canting. “Oh, god, you’re perfect,” he breathes, and Bucky lets the grin he can’t fight shape the suction, guide the rhythm of his mouth on Steve as he works him.

“You’re magic, and you’re flawless, and you’re goddamn perfect,” Steve’s babbling, and Bucky’s relishing the feel of Steve’s fingers in his hair, clenching, as Steve trembles down the limbs, loose-lipped and pliant and _everything_ as Bucky reaches, kneads the globes of his ass and teases between, “and you’re mine. You’re mine, you’re mine, you’re mine.”

And if the way Bucky takes it, swallows greedy as Steve peaks, is any kind of assent, then there’s no way to say it stronger, firmer: yes, yes, _yes_.

And Steve is his, in kind.

Bucky grins at him, sidles back up Steve’s body and braces them close as he reaches behind for the soap, lathers Steve’s body careful, gentle, tender, kisses him deep, all bitter-laced heat before he maneuvers them beneath the water and makes to wash Steve clean.

“ _You_ in a hurry?” Steve asks him, doe-eyed as Bucky turns to face him, makes to work shampoo into his hair, both hands poised to massage the scalp just as Steve likes it, just the way it makes him into putty in Bucky’s hands.

“Not even a little,” Bucky smirks, quirks a brow at the focus in Steve’s gaze.

He doesn’t get to wonder long, though, because Steve’s gripping Bucky’s hips and repositioning them swiftly when Bucky gives wholly to the momentum, when Bucky lets Steve line them together, spine to chest as Steve grinds back against Bucky’s cock, skin still slick enough that it steals Bucky’s breath from the first rock of those hips, from the first press of that cleft against Bucky’s hardening length, and fuck, fuck: he breathes careful, deep but shaky as he slides hands into Steve’s hair, washes the locks less than he grapples for purchase but Steve’s moaning with the sensation just the same, lather building as Bucky’s orgasm does the same, and when he comes, he’d swear that Steve’s looks just as blissful as if he’d been the one coming apart, just then, and that’s perfect, that’s fucking perfect.

That’s just as it should be.

_____________________________________

They’re settling into bed, together again, after diplomatic assignments took them both to different parts of the world for a better part of a week. Bucky’s beginning to rethink his willingness to be back in the field, to be honest—he’d agreed in order to keep an eye on Steve. He _hadn’t_ agreed to be apart from him like this.

Bucky’s surprised, and yet not at all surprised, at how the objectively-short space of time in which they’ve been more than an arm’s length apart for more than a few blinks at a time has impacted him: made him itch for just the sound of Steve’s voice, or the steady cadence of his breath. He’s surprised, but he’s not at all surprised.

Steve is everything. The absence of everything is a big fucking deal.

So yeah.

He’s pulling back the sheets and getting ready to collapse into Steve’s impossible, unwavering heat when the scratch of stiff paper catches him unaware where it brushes his skin at the wrist: Steve’s holding something out, and he grasps for it unquestioningly, recognizing what it is. Squinting at what it says:

 

“This is new.”

It’s Steve’s writing, that’s obvious as he runs his fingers over the lines. Bucky’d know Stevie’s scrawl anywhere.

“I'm sorry.”

Bucky’s eyes flick up at Steve’s voice: reserved. Apologetic. Almost fearful.

Bucky doesn’t like that one bit.

“Sorry?”

“Yeah,” Steve’s looking down, playing with the seam of the comforter. Bucky reaches out, and stills his worrying wrists, holds until Steve meets his gaze.

“Why the hell are you sorry?”

Steve bites his lip, and looks a hundred pounds thinner, a foot and change shorter: looks smaller than he ever looked, even, when he _was_ small. Bucky’s heart twists at the sight.

“Stevie—”

“I just,” Steve interrupts, blinks up at Bucky with wide eyes, so fucking young and open, heart on a platter and held out to Bucky like Bucky deserves even a piece of it, even a glimpse.

Bucky reaches out and gathers Steve’s hands, brings them up to his own chest just because the thought of Steve’s precious heart unguarded, left up for grabs like that makes him sick, a little. Makes him uncomfortable in the most primitive, most soul-deep of ways. 

“I don’t know what all you remember.”

Bucky squeezes Steve’s hands in his own, dries to bleed the hurting, the trepidation from Steve’s words that way. “I know.”

“And I don’t know what you’d want to say or not say about what you _do_ remember.”

“Steve—”

“But I love you, and I love when you speak to me, when you just talk, and I just, I,” Steve stumbles, swallows hard.

“You’ve been away. And I’ve been away.”

Bucky’s throat grows dry.

“I just wanted to hear your voice. I just want to, to,” Steve breathes in deep, tries to steady himself, and Bucky only pulls him closer, draws him nearer because there’s nothing else to do in all the world. 

“I want to put my head on your chest, Buck,” Steve confesses, voice low and trembling with exhaustion, and maybe with feeling. “And I want to listen to you breathing, to your heartbeat, and let your voice just, flow through me,” he sighs out, and his eyes plead when he finishes:

“I want you to tell me a story that’ll lull me to sleep.”

And Bucky can’t fault him that. Bucky won’t deny him that.

He gathers Steve close, lets Steve’s warmth be his blanket as he rests Steve’s head on his chest and breathes in, breathes out.

“I remember this one time,” Bucky whispers, kisses the top of Steve’s head. “I remember this one time you were given’ Nate O’Brien what-for, for pullin’ Francine Worthington’s pigtails.”

And Steve chuckles, soft and faint, and only interrupts for a moment, his smile something Bucky can feel against his skin:

“I forgot about them,” Steve murmurs, and Bucky smiles back, even if Steve can’t see it.

Because even if Steve can’t see it, they both hear it in the words as Bucky weaves the tale, as Bucky whispers their past into the night until Steve falls asleep.

_____________________________________

Steve wakes long after sunrise, the next morning. And Bucky’s still underneath him, heartbeat strong and steady with rest.

But something's different. Something _feels_ different.

He moves, stretches gently so as not to disturb his sleeping lover, and that’s when he realizes: there’s a soft _snick_ as he moves. An uncomfortable pull at the hair on his arm.

He looks.

He’s fucking _covered_.

 

 

He plucks the first line off his arm before starting on the next, lined across his collar bones and down the center of his chest, the hint of his sternum:

 

 

Steve glances over Bucky’s shoulder and sees the notepad and pen on Bucky’s bedside table and can’t quite stop the bubble of joyous laughter that shakes him, fills him, lifts him; that makes him burrow deeper into the softness, the beautiful warm _life_ of Bucky’s body as he closes his eyes and just, just—

Just soaks it all _in_.

_____________________________________

It’s considerably longer than a week, the next time they’re parted for missions. 

Steve doesn’t often throw his weight around, being who he is: but for this, to spare himself the burn, the absolute _ache_ in his chest at missing Bucky like he’d miss the heart inside his chest, well.

He’s thinking that’s exactly what’ll tip the scales; that's what'll break the camel’s back.

Bucky’s in the bathroom, wrapping up a shower when Steve stumbles onto their floor. His mouth is open to call out for his lover, his better half, when he sees it. Stuck up to the wall just inside the door, just at eye-level. Inescapable:

 

 

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Steve needs a shower himself, and badly. Middle of summer, and the suit doesn’t breathe as well as he’d like in this kind of heat. But fuck it. 

Bucky emerges, towel slung low, and the kind of desperate hunger that still broadcasts _love_ that burns in his eyes?

 _Fuck_ it.

Steve’s stripping down and pulling Bucky to his chest, his face, his lips; dragging him to the bedroom without another fucking _word_.

_____________________________________

“We need to do that,” Steve gasps, once they’ve both sprawled boneless and wide on either side of the bed, half their limbs still intertwined: “we need to do that more often.”

“Fuck yes,” Bucky huffs; “best use of these super-lungs I’ve ever fucking seen.”

Steve giggles, still out of breath. “I won’t argue.”

They’re both still working on calming those super-lungs, staring at the ceiling with matching stupid-grins, when Steve speaks, the words bypassing his sex-muddled brain to fall straight out his mouth:

“Do you think Clint had to use a calculator to check his math on that one?”

“Naw,” Bucky says, like it’s a completely normal sort of question. “He's real good with numbers.”

Steve nods, like it’s a completely normal sort of answer.

“Probably whipped out the spell check for all the other ones, though,” Bucky adds, and when Steve glances over, Bucky watching him with humor, with mischief dancing in this sparkling eyes, and so Steve giggles, shakes full-bodied with it, and when Bucky joins in, Steve doesn’t think the world knows how to be better than it is, here and now, with them. 

_____________________________________

It’d taken a good long while for Steve to get back into the swing of it, to be honest. But it's kinda like riding a bicycle: once he shook the rust off, he fell back into the groove.

He's smudging charcoal on the thick, luxurious sketch pad he could only have dreamed of, way back when, working to cast the shadow just so when a piece of paper falls right in the middle of his sketch:

 

 

Steve looks up. Bucky’s face is unreadable. 

Steve sets aside his sketchbook, and reaches for his acrylics. 

A subtle shake of the head. Not those. 

Steve’s hand goes lower: watercolors. 

Another little shake. 

Steve passes over the oils: they tried those forests and giggles once and they're way more trouble than they're worth. 

Rests on the last resort: pastels. 

But again: no dice. 

Which means only one thing, and it catches in Steve’s chest, all fire and yearning.

He stands and goes to think fridge in the corner, where he keeps water bottles and stores the odd mixed shade to last longer—he back for the object of both their desires: chocolate body paint, with 24 karat gold leaf. 

Steve so decadent, so hedonistic, that on its own, Steve would scorn it.

With Bucky, though— _on_ Bucky—Steve loves the future and obscenity and horrifying gluttony for all it’s worth, and then some. 

And where Steve makes for the door to head for their bedroom, Bucky merely strips off his shirt and settles face down on the floor of Steve’s little studio, perfectly content.

And if Steve gets hard just watching the muscles of that back stretch with every breath, if Steve’s cock presses firm into the cleft Bucky’s ass as he settles, straddles around him with the jar of chocolate paint and his hands as all he needs, save the man beneath him, well. 

Well, no hot blooded creature can even _blame_ him. 

And the thing is: Steve puts his heart on his canvasses, drags through charcoal likes it's his own flesh and blood. But when he paints on Bucky, his Bucky—more his heart than any muscle, any beat—it's something agonizing in just how right it feels. It's something transcendent like Steve always suspected the face of God would make a soul weep. 

And Steve knows he'll barely get an outline down before he puts lips, his tongue to that skin and cleans his workspace before the art can come to be, but it's fine, really. Inevitable, even. 

His canvas is already a masterpiece, in his opinion. Nothing he could ever add to improve upon perfection.

 

_____________________________________

It’s more than a week later that Steve gets his sketchbook out, even thinks to return to the skyline he’d been putting to paper that evening.

So it’s more than a week before he finds it.

 

 

Steve doesn’t draw anything more, that night.

He goes to bed, where Bucky’s waiting for him, instead, and kisses his sleepy brow before tucking his body into Bucky’s and curling against him beneath the covers. It’s the better choice.

It’s the better choice by far.  
_____________________________________

 

 

Bucky’s still blinking the sleep out of his eyes, waiting for the words to clear.

“Again,” he looks up at Steve, brow quirked before he pecks Steve’s lip, just to prove the point: “redundant,”

“Gotta use them all,” Steve shakes his head in such a way that he catches Bucky’s lips with one pass, traps that mouth with the second. “Else it doesn't count.”

Bucky would frown, confused as he is, if Steve wasn't suckling on his lower lip just so. “Count for what?”

“Using them all.” Steve takes the opportunity provided by answering to lick the open lines of Bucky’s lips, slow and smooth and sensuous. 

Bucky chuckles, which only leaves his mouth all the more open for Steve’s attention. 

That may have been intentional. Whatever. 

“Not everything’s a challenge, Stevie.”

Steve nips Bucky's lip in response: telling Steve Rogers that a thing ain't a challenge is like telling the sun not to rise come morning. 

“Certainly not this,” Bucky goes on, if only just to keep Steve at his creative pursuit of Bucky’s mouth around the words. “Five minutes. What a joke.”

Steve pulls back enough to grin at that, damn near feral. It sends a jolt of heat down Bucky’s spine to the point of gasping, to the point of leaving himself open for Steve to devour him whole. 

Bucky’s intimately aware of the ridges of his teeth, the hollow of his throat as he lets Steve set the pace and the rhythm, but give as much to the music that they make as Steve outs forth, drags dear from Bucky’s chest and it’s a give and taken, evenly matched as they twist and lick and bite and moan and bend against one another: a dance and a song for the ancient, all at once, because they're everything that means anything, of that Bucky’s always been certain. 

“What do other people consider a normal kiss, I wonder?” Bucky gasps, pants once they finally give in to breathing, burden that it is. 

“Ain't worth wondering,” Steve grins, still breathless despite the working of his lungs, the heaving, just for looking at Bucky, and hell if that doesn't do funny shit to the heart in Bucky’s chest, right there. “Waste of time when you're right here.”

Steve leans in, breaths at the tip of Bucky's jaw to send shivers down his spine, 

“Waiting for me.”

And maybe this is just about the now, or maybe they'll never be just about a now, maybe they'll never be _just_ anything: don't matter a lick, really, ‘cause the answer's still the same. 

“Never anywhere else, babydoll,” Bucky shudders, and leans back in to speak it into Steve’s lips, Steve’s mouth:

“Never anywhere else.”

_____________________________________

 

Bucky’s out of commission when the call comes in. Even with his accelerated healing, the hit he took still needs time for his bones to fully set.

Which means when everything goes to hell, and they lose visuals on Steve, and then all comms, and all they see is fire, Bucky’s not there.

Bucky’s not fucking _there_.

So when it’s over, and Steve gets off the jet only _slightly_ worse for wear, all smiles until he sees Bucky’s ashen face, there’s not time to be wasted on talking.

They collide with the force of a fucking bullet, a missile: they’re in each other’s arms before either of them can breathe. 

“I thought—” Bucky starts, but Steve kisses the thoughts, the fears from him as deep as he can.

“Tech problems, babe,” Steve reassures him. “Wasn’t even that big of a scuffle, honest.”

And Bucky’s heart’s still racing a little, though Steve’s holding him close enough to feel Steve’s own pulse: strong and steady and so very there, so _alive_ —Bucky’s heart’s still racing, and he clings back all the harder, and neither of them notice the crumpled piece of paper Bucky’d been holding as a talisman, had been crumpling for hours until they had word that Steve was alive, that Steve would come _home_ :

 

 

Neither of them notice, because some things don’t need to be said.  
_____________________________________

If Steve wakes the next morning with Bucky in his arms—if in a completely different position than when they’d actually fallen asleep—then that’s just how it should be. Always.

If Steve looks over to the nightstand at his side and see the notes, the beat of Bucky’s heart is under his hands as he glances them over.

 

 

If Steve just holds Bucky all the tighter to him, then that’s just how the world turns, isn’t it.

How it was always _meant_ to turn.

_____________________________________

Bucky loves the dog. In fact, they both love the dog. The dog has saved their asses more times than they can count; soothed their demons more than the nine months that have seen their baby girl stumble upward on lengthening legs from puppyhood should have been able to withstand. They _love_ the dog. 

Bucky just isn't quite as fond of the responsibilities _attached_ to the dog when he's sweaty and cum-slick and satisfied as hell in their bed when Star decides to start scratching at the door. 

“Mmmph,” Bucky groans, throwing an arm out and rummaging for the dwindling stack of paper on the nightstand. He knows the one he wants is the third one down. 

 

 

“I wrote that one,” Steve protests before even _seeing_ the damn thing.

“So?”

“So, I'm supposed to use it on you.”

“Shit outta luck then, pal.”

Bucky gets a pillow to the face, in response. 

“JARVIS.”

“Yes, Captain?” 

“Open the door out to the balcony for Star, would you?”

“Oh my god,” Bucky groans again, not bothering to remove the pillow over his face. “Cheating. That’s cheating.”

 

“Says who?” Steve reaches and retrieves his pillow gingerly, but his smirk is audible.

The _bastard_. 

“Says the _rules_ ,” Bucky whines, fully aware that he sounds petulant as a ten year old and suitably unrepentant. 

“ _What_ rules?”

“The fucking rules of the coupons,” 

“They’re homemade love coupons, Buck,” Steve counts, almost pityingly; far too fond. “They don’t have rules.”

“Of course they have rules, they’ve gotta have rules! You're the one who said they said rules, the using all the coupons rule, the—”

Bucky finds the pillow that had been in his face swiftly replaced with Steve. More precisely, with Steve’s mouth. On Bucky’s mouth. 

_Bastard_. 

“What are you doing?” it comes out muffled, though, because Steve’s nothing if not thou rough about most things in life. Kissing’s no exception. 

“Here, see?” Steve grins into a nip of a kiss as he pinches Bucky’s side playfully. “No rules.”

“Fucking punk,” Bucky growls, and flips them over in one practiced motion, giving himself a moment to enjoy the dilation of Steve's pupils as he registers Bucky’s weight on top of him. 

“J,” Steve calls out, eyes never leaving Bucky's lips; “you’ll let her in when she’s done?”

“Of course, sir,” the AI responds, and Bucky’s never _actually_ been grateful before, for Tony Stark’s meddling in their home. And he isn’t now. Not even a little bit.

Nope.

“Sleep well, Captain. You as well, Sergeant.”

And if sleep is the last thing they'll be preoccupied with, well—JARVIS is a smart cookie. He probably already figured that out. 

_____________________________________

If Steve’s gonna be honest: he shirks the coupon because he knows that, come morning, Star will wake him up early to be let out again, because she knows that Steve’s more likely to either take her on his run, or just walk her around the block.

So when she noses him awake around 4am, he’s not surprised.

When it’s dry roughness, and not lukewarm wetness that presses into his skin, though, he pays it more mind.

He grins before he carefully peels the post-it that’s decorating the dog’s nose:

 

 

Steve’s smile broadens, and maybe he leans over to drop a soft kiss to Bucky’s sleeping brow. It doesn’t wake him, but it does quirk up Bucky’s own lips in kind, and that’s enough to send Steve off for a too-early walk with lightness in his step.

_____________________________________

He gets back, and hangs up the leash, only to realize they’re out of dog food and Star’s always hungry after a walk and he was supposed to buy some before they came home from the 24-hour place on the corner.

Sonuvabitch. 

He sighs, ready to go back out and moves to call for Star to accompany him when he sees her nose is already in her bowl—her food-filled bowl—and Steve moves to the counter where he sees Bucky’s keys sprawled outside their normal spot, and a well-scribbled receipt from the Mini Mart awaiting him:

 

Steve glances toward the bedroom, where Bucky’s obviously gone back to sleep.

Steve scratches Star behind her ears and thinks, hell: maybe he’ll go and join him.

_____________________________________

 

Bucky’s a bit incredulous at this one, when it falls across the sheet music in front of him. 

“I play for you all the time.”

Steve shrugs. “So?”

“I play your fucking _requests_ all the time.”

“So?”

Bucky folds his arms, and turns on the piano bench to face Steve full-on. “I know what you're doing.”

And he does. Because trying to use Bucky’s own coupon on Bucky smacks of Bucky using Steve’s coupon on Steve, with the dog. And Steve’s all about _justice_ after all, ain’t he?

“So?” Steve’s stone-faced in a way he thinks Bucky’ll buy. 

So naive.

“You cheated, on the dog thing.”

Steve shrugs again. “That's your opinion.”

“Fine,” Bucky sighs. “Fine, compromise.”

Steve’s brow quirks, wary. Good, Bucky thinks. He damn well should be.

“I'll be your accompaniment.”

Steve maybe pales, just a little. “Bucky—”

“Please.”

And Bucky doesn’t even beg, is the thing. Just says it, honest. Because he’s wanted Stevie to sing for him. And he wants that now.

“Bucky,” Steve draws out the name, trying to plead for sympathy, anything. “I couldn’t carry a tune with a wheelbarrow. You don’t—”

“But I do. I,” Bucky swallows, and remembers the neighbor’s radio and steve’s voice when he thought Bucky couldn’t hear—a lifetime ago, and yes, he fucking _wants_. “Please?”

He plays the opening bars of the song in his head, too—the one Steve always sang along to with particular whimsicalness, a certain kind of longing that Bucky spent too many nights wishing was aimed at himself.

“Buck,” Steve breathes, starting to understand as Bucky trills a few measures. “Oh _Buck_.”

“Who were you singin’ for?” Bucky asks, once Steve’s warmth is pressed against his back as he plays, once Steve’s hands are laces around his neck loose enough for Bucky to tip his chin and kiss his wrist. “Back then?”

“You, moron,” Steve says without hesitation or prelude, and Bucky’s heart skips even if his hands don’t, if his command of the music stays true, but then Steve’s whispering the lyrics to him, soft and hot into his ear, and okay.

That’s a compromise he can stand.

_____________________________________

 

 

“What do you even think this one means?”

Bucky peeks over Steve’s shoulder. 

“I don’t know if we want to know.”

“I wanna know,” Steve says with resolve, and, well: no turning back. 

“Have fun with that,” Bucky shrugs, going into the kitchen to grab the bag of pretzels. The little window-shaped ones. He fucking digs those pretzels. 

He’s halfway through the bag of pretzels, in fact, when a yelp calls him back to the living room where Steve is staring at him with real fucking horror, holding out his phone like a bomb awaiting someone to diffuse it. 

Bucky sighs. This has been his job forever. Literally, as long as he can remember. 

Variety is the spice of life, goddamnit. 

Though if Steve ever _did_ learn the meaning of ‘no, down boy, stop poking that bear, leave it alone,’ Bucky would probably be worried. 

Whatever. 

Bucky grabs the phone and steels himself for whatever he's going to see. 

He's still not prepared for it. 

 

 

“Do you think,” Steve starts, gesturing wildly, but Bucky speaks fluent Steve, and the same question’s on his own tongue: who’s working which uniform?

“Well, she can pull off anything,” Bucky says, because there's no hint at the crotch, but the lighting’s bad, and those hands...

“Clint’s got the build for it,” Steve finishes Bucky’s thought. “Lithe. Ish.”

Bucky thrusts the phone back toward Steve. 

“Ask.” Because Steve opened Pandora’s box, now, and what's been seen cannot be un-fucking-seen. 

And now Bucky’s fucking curious, and it's all Steve’s fault. 

“No.”

“Stevie—”

“I am so not asking that. No.”

“Come _on_ ,” Bucky whines, tries to coax him, but Steve looks more discomforted by the prospect of knowing than the niggling it inaction of what's left unknown. 

Which says a lot, really, for a punk like Stevie. 

So: fine. 

Maybe Bucky'll get Clint shitfaced one of these days and just flat out ask for himself. 

_____________________________________

Though if Steve thought that was going to be the end of it: he definitely had another thing coming. 

“Saw you kept going back to that text,” is the simple response Bucky makes to Steve’s dropped jaw as the door closes behind him, as the keys fall limp from his hands. “Figured I’d get a jump on it.”

“Too early for Christmas,” Steve gapes dumbly, and Bucky grins, because a dumbfounded Stevie is one of his favourite things in the world. He loves taking his fella by surprise. 

“You kept it, obviously.”

“I guess you could say that, yeah.” And Steve’s still slack-jawed, still staring, blinking like he can't believe what's in front of him. “That’s a replica,” he adds in a daze; “pretty sure they all are. No idea if the _real_ one made it off of me in one piece, after the ice.”

“Did you know?” Bucky asks, toying with the fit of the glove over his left hand before making eye contact, before burning it straight into Steve’s wide-gaping eyes. “Did you know what I meant when I said it, back then?”

“I knew what I wanted it to mean,” Steve’s swallows, breath faint. “What I never dreamed was really anything close to what you were sayin’-—”

“Stevie,” Bucky cuts him off; chiding and enticing and inviting all at once, and it works like a charm just like Bucky knew it would(;breaks the stasis as Steve trips over himself to meet Bucky, to fall into him and only pause, only pull back enough to gasp: 

“Will you let me?” Steve mouths more than breathes, and Bucky rolls his star-spangles hips into Steve’s waiting grasp on answer. 

Steve’s eyes go black with sheer fucking _want_. 

“Let me take it off,” Steve breathes out, ogling Bucky with such desire it nearly burns through Bucky’s skin: Steve takes in Bucky in Steve’s original duds, the uniform a damn good fit, to be frank, if a little tight here, a little loose there. 

Steve doesn't seem to notice those imperfections, though. Steve seems to only see, and need, and Bucky can hear the pounding of Steve’s blood with how close they are, now, with Steve’s hands at Bucky’s waist. 

“You’re beautiful,” Steve murmurs, tugs at the neck of the suit. “You wear it better than me, for sure.”

“Naw,” Bucky smirks, leans into Steve’s attentions. “Not even close,” and it almost surprises him when Steve takes the cloth between teeth and starts to unfasten it with just his tongue and the talent of his mouth. 

“Don’t got those big guns,” Bucky adds, though that's not quite true; “and then the arm—”

 

“No,” Steve growls, possessive just a she's protective as fuck, just as he defends how goddamn stunning his guy is, and Bucky almost melts for the way it feels, every time, to be that fucking _loved_ by Steven Grant Rogers. 

Every _time_. 

“No, you’re,” Steve gasps a little, and maybe his thrown back head is more temptation than Bucky can stand. “No, you’re breathtaking. I,” he swallows, and Bucky watches it roll down that prone throat like water, like molten metal and a breath of wind. “You could take down the enemy just by showing up.”

“The Captain America charm,” Bucky huffs out half a chuckle. 

“Not that,” Steve pants a little, but reaches to lace his fingers through Bucky’s, to make his point know. “You distract me often enough in your own digs,” he confesses breathily; “but this,” he swallows hard. “Buck, I—”

“Sir,”

Steve blinks, doe-eyed. “What?”

“I’m a Captain, now, soldier,” Bucky purrs, but there’s an edge that sends a flush to Steve’s cheeks and a shake down his spin. “You call me sir.” 

“Sir,” Steve says, almost rote, almost gone for how aroused he is: Bucky can see it, nearly, coming off of him in waves. “Yes, sir.”

“Oh, yeah,” Bucky grins; “there’s a hunch paying off.”

He always knew Steve had issues with authority. He kinda figured this was a button he could try pushing one day, to one desirable effect or another. 

“ _Buck_.”

“C’mere, baby,” he crooks a finger and invites Steve closer to him: impossible, but they make it happen. They are impossible in themselves. “You want your orders?”

Steve kisses him, slow and deep, and that’s a yes if Bucky’s even heard one.

“Strip,” he snaps the waistband Steve’s boxers indicatively. “Now.”

Steve stills, still reeling a little, still processing, so Bucky gives him a nudge.

“And assuming you want me to fuck you with at least some of the uniform still on,” he smirks, as Steve’s stupor snaps and his clothes go flying:

“We’ll go from there.”

_____________________________________

 

 

“I feel like,” Steve licks his lips, swallows awkwardly around images that come to mind that he really, really, _really_ doesn’t want to see. “Like, this time?” Steve shoots Bucky a look that’s the closest Steve Roger’s gets to fear, aside from watching Bucky himself in danger. “This time, we actually don’t want to know.”

Bucky’s staring down at the coupon, gestures with his phone: an offering. 

“I mean, I could...” he trails off, because yeah. He doesn’t really want to know the details of this one. Doesn’t really want to ask if it’s a general type thing, or like, you know. A specific. Thing.

Thing.

“But it’s the god _dess_ —” Steve’s got a little bit of a whine in his voice, because Steve may be no saint, but imagining some of his closest friends having a cunniliguous coupon still does things to him. Because he’s human. And he’s Steve.

Bucky kinda loves that about his best guy, to be honest.

“Here,” Bucky puts his phone down, grabs for a pen off the counter and uncaps it with his teeth, gestures for the coupon which Steve relinquishes immediately, like maybe it’s made of acid, or on fire.

Adorable fuck that he is.

“Let me,” Steve suddenly changes tune, like he’s off put by the idea that an innocuous little slip of paper can make him so uncomfortable. So Bucky does his best to fight a smirk in the face of Steve’s steel-gazed resolve and hands both the coupon and the pen back to Steve, who scribbles quick before presenting the amendments for Bucky’s approval. 

 

 

“Better,” Bucky nods; considers. “But not perfect.”

He grabs for the pen and makes a single squiggle:

 

Steve grins.

“Yes.”

It’s a race who gets to their knees first, almost.

Steve wins. 

Though Bucky’ll call that shit a draw, any day.

_____________________________________

After a mission-well-completed, Bucky takes the opportunity to slip the suggestion Steve’s way not unlike a teenage boy with a crush passing notes. 

There's a certain thrill to it, when he thinks of it like that. 

 

 

“Oh my god.”

Bucky huffs. “Come on, babe. They call it life affirming for a reason.”

“On the jet, though?” To the casual observer, Steve would probably sound hesitant. But Bucky knows him too well to be fooled; and besides—Steve’s nor fighting Bucky's pull, the way Bucky tugs him by the hand toward the bay doors. 

“All the coupons,” Bucky reminds him, as they slip onto the exterior dock; “like you said.”

“S’fuckin’ freezing.” Steve shivers, but it's a front. Can't fool Bucky. 

“For them.” And Bucky leans in, unfolds Steve from his uniform and slips his hands under the fabric, straight up Steve’s chest. 

“They'll wonder where we went,” Steve doesn't even put the appropriate effort into it to make it sound like a real protest as Bucky works down Steve’s chest to palm him, pet him heavy as he swells in his pants; Steve doesn't even _try_. 

“Which is why they call it a fucking quickie, dumbass,” Bucky breathes, and his words cloud in the winter air, swirl around them as he teases Steve’s waistband and relishes the tiny little keen he gets for his efforts. 

“Just making sure,” Steve finally gives up the pretence and leans into Bucky’s body, presses hard to Bucky's mouth so Bucky can taste every gasp and moan as Bucky's hand slides down to stoke Steve, flesh to flesh until the dark swath of material at the crotch of his uniform is called upon for due diligence in the interest of discretion. 

By the time they rejoin the team, to not a single raised brow: turns out the uniform does a bang up job in that department. 

Good to know. 

_____________________________________

Bucky settles next to Steve on the couch, and hands over a familiar purple piece of paper without ceremony. 

 

“Last one.”

“Seriously?” Steve looks up, a little bit surprised, and maybe, just maybe, a touch disappointed. “Damn.”

“Yeah,” Bucky nods, feeling less of the former and more of the latter as he takes a swig of his beer and sighs deeply. ““Hell of a year.”

Steve’s staring down at the coupon in his hand, but it’s with the soft kind of smile that holds his whole heart in the balance.

“My best one yet.”

Bucky feels warm for it, no doubt: it’s been his best one, too.

“Sap,” he says, though, because Steve fucking deserves it.

“You love it,” Steve grins and leans into Bucky’s frame.

“Love you,” Bucky answers, because just because he called Steve out for being a sap don’t mean he isn’t just as bad.

So sue him. 

“I feel like this does the finale of it all an injustice, though,” Bucky flicks the corner of the coupon Steve’s still holding, and Steve looks up at him with a question in his eyes.

“We're competitive fucks,” Bucky tells him, sipping on his drink as he considers. “So maybe, like, ‘cause I'd be more inclined to get naked, see,” he smirks wantonly; “or get _you_ naked, but losing is kinda against our nature.”

Steve nods. It’s stating the obvious.

“So _maybe_ we should start in the buff, yeah?” Bucky proposes.

“In mid-December?” Steve counters, though it’s hollow.

“It's 60 degrees outside, loser. Global warming is a fact.”

Steve concedes the point.

“So, start in the buff, and then losing means,” and Bucky leans, nips at Steve’s ear as he murmurs: “the winner puts _on_ a piece of clothes.”

“Oh,” Steve huffs out; “oh, that's good.” 

“Keep us both invested in the game, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Steve’s eyes are big as he stands and goes to the drawer with their playing cards. “That's real good.”

Of course it’s real good. It was _Bucky’s_ idea.  
_____________________________________

Steve wakes up the next morning to all whole flung-about deck on the living room floor, because it was strip poker. Or, opposite strip poker.

Of course things got a little rowdy.

But even if the cards are still out and sprawled in disarray, a nice chunk of them appear to have been put to order.

A perfect _fourth_ of them, in fact.

Steve picks a few up to investigate.

 

He thumbs through the 13 cards and peels off the notes attached, one to every-other card, and breathes to the rhythm of reading each little message, each note left just for him.

 

 

And if Steve gets a little teary-eyed, because it hasn’t gotten old to see the notes, to see it written in Bucky’s hand and know that Bucky is here and is his and _loves_ him, through and through like the miracle he didn’t the universe was big enough to hold: if Steve gets a little teary-eyed, then only the cards he picks up notice.

And if the cards with notes were only the Hearts, then yeah, they’re both saps, and Steve wouldn’t have it any other way.

_____________________________________

Bucky was well aware that was the last coupon, long before bringing it out.

Bucky’s also well aware that Nat’s been eyeing him strangely, waiting for him to break down and ask again what to get Steve for Christmas this year. He's well aware Clint’s disappointed that Bucky hasn't responded to a single one of the man’s coupon suggestions. He’s well aware that Sam’s coordinating another mutually-beneficial last minute lifesaver for when Bucky comes to him for the Hail Mary. 

Because Bucky _knows_ shit, man. 

But here’s the thing: Bucky’s known what he was getting Steve for Christmas for months, now. And he's known just how to do it, too: known their style, known Steve’s pride as well as his reticence like the blood in his own veins since they were both small. Bucky knows, this time. 

The man who has everything needs nothing. 

But what maybe he _wants_ , and is too nervous, to afraid of the misstep, even with the right partner to act? Well, shit. 

They're out of coupons, yes.

But Bucky still owes Steve an even-hundred of a list. 

And he's one reason short.  
_____________________________________

Steve wakes up way too early Christmas morning. Even for him.

He knows this because Bucky’s always up before him on holidays, had a pot of coffee on so Steve can drink some as soon as he gets up, can let the dog out while he enjoys his cup of joe; so Bucky can follow shortly after and hold him close and steal his coffee like the menace he is before he grabs them a refill, never bothering with two mugs.

So Steve knows it’s too damn early because he cannot smell any coffee. 

He knows the telltale jingle of the dog’s collar though, at his side, and he sighs.

“What’s up, girl?” Steve slurs sleepily, rolling over slowly so as not to disturb Bucky and reaching out to pet Star’s head. “It’s too early for a walk. S’Christmas.”

He burrows back into his pillow, like she’ll understand a word of his reasoning.

She licks his hand and whines, so he squints to see what’s wrong.

And there. It’s pretty obvious.

There’s a fucking post-it on the dog’s collar.

And so Steve reaches, a little disoriented; still waking up. Steve reaches because if Bucky wanted to leave him one more message before Christmas, to return the gift or whatever, that _is_ a good place to put it. Steve, being a creature of habit, would see it first. Wouldn’t miss it.

He has to blink a few times to get the message. Though once he _does_ , he keeps blinking, because his throat is tight and his chest is lit up and his stomach is all butterflies and nerves and his hands are shaking and his eyes won’t stop streaming and it’s _Christmas_ , and Steve knows it’s a time for miracles and whatever, but.

 _But_.

 

 

And when he flips it over, his heart flips too, and he can’t help the sobbed-out laughter that bubbles up from the deepest parts of himself at what he finds:

 

 

And they're out of coupons. 

But he's pretty sure they have some blank tickets floating around, somewhere. 

Heart as light as his is, the search goes by quick. The search doesn't matter. 

He's never felt so _alive_. 

_____________________________________

Bucky wakes at his usual time. Steve’s still asleep next to him, and Bucky takes a long moment just to look at him. Just to marvel at the man he shares his soul with, every single day.

Lucky sonuvabitch that he is.

But the clock promises that Steve will wake up soon, and so Bucky rolls out of bed and slips on some lounge pants and goes first for the coffee to take to the machine, so it’s only on second-glance that he sees it.

He sees it, and his heart’s in his fucking throat.

Because Bucky had been pretty damn sure when he’d left the last of his list for Steve—but Steve shouldn’t have found it. Not yet.

But his Stevie’s never played by the rules. And Bucky had been _pretty_ sure. Not positive.

But the note that awaits him on the machine is the biggest _yes_ he could have asked for. The surest thing he could’ve wanted in the world.

He can’t stop grinning as he goes about making his fella his coffee. 

Merry Christmas, in-fucking-deed.

_____________________________________

 


	2. 100 Reason Why I Love You, Steve Rogers by Bucky Barnes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For those for whom the images aren't being cooperative: Bucky's List.

  1. You don't look at it like it's a wrong thing, you look at it like it's magnificent. 
  2. You don't flinch from it. 
  3. Your heartbeat, then.
  4. Your heartbeat, now.
  5. Your heartbeat, always, because it means that this is real.
  6. Your hands.
  7. The way you feel in my arms.
  8. The way your arms feel around me.
  9. Your laughter.
  10. Your smile.
  11. Your loyalty.
  12. The way you never give up.
  13. The way you never take no for an answer.
  14. The way you don't even pretend that you're not the most stubborn asshole to ever walk the planet (and it’s a fucking good look on you, Stevie; s’a real fucking good look).
  15. The shape of your mouth.
  16. When your stubble grows in before you can take a razor to it and you let me kiss you with it for as long as I want it before you can shave it off.
  17. The look in your eyes when you watch me, when you let me shave it off,
  18. The way you snore,
  19. The way your face looks when you're sleeping,
  20. The sounds you make when you come,
  21. The way you haven’t forgotten where you come from. The way you’re still learning that you’ve always been the man you are, here and now. You’ve always been a hero. You’ve always been the thing I pinned my heart on.
  22. The way you love.
  23. The fact that, for all the things and people you could show that love to most, you picked me.
  24. The way you see the world.
  25. The way you find beauty and goodness in the worst of things, and by finding the beauty and the goodness in them, you make them beautiful and good.
  26. You find beauty and goodness in me. I don’t know how. But you do.
  27. The way you cook scrambled eggs.
  28. The fact that, for all the shit you can cook now, more often than not, you still pick scrambled fucking eggs.
  29. Your kindness.
  30. The sheer goddamn size of your heart.
  31. Your ability to forgive.
  32. Your faith in the world. In people.
  33. In me. 
  34. The way you draw me, and the way it's never changed.
  35. The way you make me feel like it wasn't a mistake that I lived, that I survived when I shouldn't have, by rights; the way you make me feel like I belong here, with you, now. After everything. I belong with you, here, and nowhere else.
  36. Your sense of humor.
  37. The fact that you're a goddamn punk and no one else even realizes it.
  38. The scent of your hair.
  39. The way the water in the shower runs down your chest.
  40. The dip of your spine.
  41. The curve of your ass.
  42. The places where you're still ticklish.
  43. The face you make when I bake your ma's best chocolate tarte. 
  44. The way you know when I need you, without me asking.
  45. The way you always come when I need you, without hesitation.
  46. The way that I need you .
  47. When you leave marks from your pencils and your charcoal and your pastels on my skin. When you can’t wait to touch me until after you’ve washed it all off.
  48. The way you’re fearless.
  49. The way the only fear that touches you isn’t even fear: it’s just love that’s so big that it’s almost terrifying. Would be, too, if it wasn’t so blinding. So right.
  50. The way you look at me like I’m precious, somehow. 
  51. The way you don’t even know it’s you who’s precious. Who’s more than any other thing in the whole goddamn world.
  52. The way you love the dog.
  53. The way you love me more, even though she’s so fuckin’ cute it’s a crime.
  54. The way you watch me when I play. 
  55. The way I can play for you without a glove, and you don’t even notice the clacking of my fingers against the keys.
  56. The way Brooklyn still sneaks into your voice, even now. And only for me.
  57. The way your body moves in battle. 
  58. The way your body moves in bed.
  59. The way your breath catches when you look at me, sometimes.
  60. You understood what I meant by the end of the line. And you never forgot.
  61. The way that I wasn’t sure there was any heart in me left, except for you.
  62. The way my soul makes up for all its wrongs, because it belongs to you.
  63. The way you giggle in your sleep, sometimes. Like your dreams are finally happy again.
  64. Your patience. With everything.
  65. Your eyes, and the way that they say everything, if you know how to read them.
  66. The way other people think they know, but they don’t know—and I do. I know. You taught me. I love that.
  67. The way you fall asleep on my arm sometimes. The way you curl up and wrap around me like I’m the best place you think of to rest your head.
  68. When you frame my face with your hands before you kiss me, and you really look at me. And you <i>see</i>. And then you kiss me, after. Even once you’ve seen.
  69. The way you always see. The way you see everything, and the way you understand without me having to say.
  70. The way you don’t hold back, anymore, when we spar. 
  71. After everything, you make me feel safe.
  72. After everything, you let me make you safe.
  73. Your fake-fucking-innocence when you pull pranks on the others. You’re goddamn lucky I’ve got a fantastic poker face.
  74. You don’t mind when I cry. You cry with me.
  75. You never leave.
  76. I believe that you won’t ever leave.
  77. Your goddamn jawline.
  78. The way that you stayed, in me, somewhere and somehow that could come back despite everything else. The way that I loved you then, and the way I love you now, that they couldn’t take. Not entirely.
  79. How you took “not entirely” and ran with it, and never once backed down from bringing me back.
  80. The way you love all of me, all the pieces and the parts and all the things that are different. And all the shit that stayed the same.
  81. The way you’ve grown and adapted and learned to be and love in this new place, this new time. The way you’re so resilient and headstrong and amazing. You fucking amaze me. In everything. 
  82. That shit you do with your thighs, when you flip us, and then with your hips, and the tongue up top and the lips and, yeah. Like, you know. You know what I mean. 
  83. The way you’re not afraid to want, with me. 
  84. The way you take care of me.
  85. The way you let me take care of you.
  86. The way you don’t sing in the shower, but you hum. It’s fucking adorable. And I love that I’m the only one who knows what it sounds like.
  87. The way you hum around my cock when you suck me off. And the way that I’m the only one who knows that that sounds like.
  88. The way you make my chest feel, sometimes, just by looking at me. It shouldn’t be possible. You shouldn’t be possible. And yet.
  89. The way your hand fits in my hand. Both my hands. Like nothing about you will ever not be made to fit anything about me. 
  90. The fact that your coffee still tastes like tar, like rations, like the tang of liquid dirt’s still some luxury. Fuck, but I love you. 
  91. The color of your hair in the sunlight. 
  92. The way you breathe in your sleep. That's the rhythm of the goddamn universe, Stevie. You gotta know that. 
  93. The way you move to fit me, to keep me near and close and safe and warm, without even thinking. Like I'm a piece of you. Like I'm written in your bones. 
  94. The way you're cranky when you're sleepy. Or hungry. Or when you get your punk self out-snarked. 
  95. The swell of your lips after we kiss, and the shade of your eyes when they're that fucking wide. Red white and blue, babe—nobody would believe how well it suits you like this. 
  96. The way you blush when you get hard. I will never get over it. Ever. 
  97. The way everything else in the world can change. The way every other person in the world could leave. The way the universe could end, but there's you. You're the only thing. The only one. Always. Forever. 
  98. The taste of your fingertips when I suck on the whorls. 
  99. My heart beats faster when you're near me. You remind me I'm alive and real and I can feel down to the core of me, just by being there. Just by being you. 
  100. The fact that there’s a question that I want to ask you, that I think you want to ask me too but we’re both scared it’s too soon, except it’s not too soon, not for us, not for this, but we’ll wait anyway, because it doesn’t even matter if it’s now or if it’s later—but the fact that there’s a question we both want to ask, and when it gets asked, whoever does the asking: I love you for the fact that I know the answer’ll be yes.



  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://hitlikehammers.tumblr.com).


End file.
